Page 14 of Icing Hearts

“Feel free to explain yourself.”

“I’d rather not.”

“What the heck happened to you? Personality fracture? Break with reality? Roid rage?”

“Let it go, Charity,” I sigh.

“Not a chance.”

I raise her hand and spin her around, attempting to muffle my tortured groan with a deep draw of the liquid sloshing in my cup as she rolls her hips against me. The less this cruel, torturous woman looks at me, the better.

Indignant, with her and our circumstances, I begin to say, “What the fu—”

She cuts me off with a scolding, “Language!”

“What? Why?” I ask, furrowing my brow with mystification.

She tuts at me, but it’s hard to hear over the roar of the part. It being the first party after our first home game win, everyone has turned out, even some kids who graduated last year. My parents don’t mind the parties, and after the game they went to my older sister’s townhouse downtown to visit until everyone clears out.

“Aaron Warner doesn’t like cussing so neither do I,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Who is Aaron Warner and why should I care what he thinks?” I ask while she pushes off and does some sort of pirouette, then jogs around me in a big circle. I suppress the urge to laugh, to show that I’m entertained and delighted by her antics .

“Only one of the best book characters of all time,” she huffs.

I roll my eyes. Of course, she’s talking about a boy who lives in the pages of a book. “Never heard of him.”

“Figures.”

“So, what thehelldo you want from me?”

“A genuine apology would be a good start. Maybe some groveling.”

“Sorry,” I whisper, and I hope she picks up on my sincerity. I’m not sorry I did it. I mean, I should be slightly remorseful for my behavior, but I’m not. But I’m sorry I made her mad. “It wasn’t even about you, anyway. Jermaine got himself on my hit list last season, and he knew exactly what he was doing by talking to the manager of my team right in front of me.” It’s a lie. A bald-faced lie at that. Jermaine is one of the nicest guys in all of high school hockey. It’s one of a plethora of lies I’ve told Clara over the years. “Anything else?” I ask.

She taps my bottom lip with her index finger. “Yes, now that you mention it, I want that bottom lip. I think I’m going to steal it to use as my pillow tonight and every night thereafter.”

“Promise?” I whisper. But the music is loud, and I look away, so she doesn’t catch it. She never does when I mutter such confessions. And if she does, she pretends she doesn’t, so I pretend I don’t say it. I pull my bottom lip in and bite the part she grazed, as if, by some miracle, I’ll be able to taste her the way I desire .

I’m always capricious, a bit given to malice, if you will, after a party—after having her so close for such a fleeting period. Tonight, my irritability sets in early, and I disappear to my room immediately after our dance ends, only returning to kick out the stragglers a couple hours later. The ghost of her touch, the swirl of her hips, the vibration of her words so near to my skin—it will haunt me for days. And by the time my physical longing fades enough to function normally, it will be time for the next party.

For some time now, I’ve been well-acquainted with my masochism. There can be no other explanation for such self-punishing behavior. Because, though I dread every single party she attends, I find any possible excuse to host them.

Chapter 10

Clara

Tory doesn’t seem like much of a reader. I always picture him sitting in his living room watching hockey games or maybe his own highlights. He certainly doesn’t do much homework when he’s not training, if his grades are any indication.

For that reason, I wasn’t terribly surprised he is unfamiliar with Aaron Warner. Sometimes I wonder what he does outside of hockey, partying, and dating beauty queens.

He shows up to the library on time and clean shaven, despite the purple semi-circles beneath his storm-filled eyes. Without a word, Tory shrugs off his black, puffy jacket and backpack. He pulls out his ear pods. To my chagrin, he’s wearing gray hockey sweatpants and a long-sleeved tournament t-shirt. I don’t know what it is about seeing a man in long sleeves, but it drives me absolutely crazy. I think it’s something about the way it hits their wrists with only their hands popping out.

I perk up when he slinks into the polyester chair across from me. It’s that scratchy woven material that’s like burlap in a lovely, rotted cranberry color.

“What’s eating you, Gilbert Grape?” I ask, twirling one of my curls. I did my hair today because I knew Tory would see me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have bothered because I would have been hiding in my room all day.

Tory sighs. “Only you would reference an antiquated nineties movie, Charity.”

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